<!DOCTYPE html>
<html>
<head>
<meta charset="UTF-8">
<title>Ghosts in Stone by Nunonabun</title>
<style type="text/css">

body { background-color: #ffffff; }
.CI {
text-align:center;
margin-top:0px;
margin-bottom:0px;
padding:0px;
}
.center   {text-align: center;}
.cover    {text-align: center;}
.full     {width: 100%; }
.quarter  {width: 25%; }
.smcap    {font-variant: small-caps;}
.u        {text-decoration: underline;}
.bold     {font-weight: bold;}
</style>
</head>
<body>
<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/23720194">Ghosts in Stone</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/Nunonabun/pseuds/Nunonabun'>Nunonabun</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Call the Midwife</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>F/M</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-04-19</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2020-04-19</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-02 22:14:36</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Mature</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>No Archive Warnings Apply</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>1</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>705</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/23720194</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/Nunonabun/pseuds/Nunonabun</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>Shelagh seeks a distraction from the memories the Nonnatuns' trip to the Outer Hebrides brings up.</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Bernadette | Shelagh Turner/Patrick Turner</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>1</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>15</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>Ghosts in Stone</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>The stalwart, wind-lashed church reminded her powerfully of her childhood home. Though it was on the other side of the country, the rolling hills and jutting rock were unsettlingly familiar. The warm but guarded locals were ghosts of her girlhood, their musical Gaelic substituted for the rolling Doric she’d tried so hard to suppress in herself. </p><p>As they entered the lofty, communal space, her first thought was of privacy. She’d certainly had enough of that as a child, but as a married woman with small children, it was a precious commodity. And there were some elements of her life she preferred that her colleagues and former sisters not think about. </p><p>It came as a relief then, to find there were in fact separate rooms they would reside in, and that they were reassuringly thick-walled.</p><p>The narrow window in their bedroom overlooked the little town. It was unlike her hometown, the roads here were unpaved, the houses overlooking the magnificent vista of the Atlantic. Besides that, their cold stone remained dull in the sunlight, unlike the sparkling granite that was so characteristic of the North-East. And yet it felt so much like Inverurie, this small, self-reliant, self-contained Scottish ecosystem. A creeping unease came over her, a ridiculous feeling that when she turned in for the night, she would close her eyes and re-open them in her bed in Inverurie, in the little flat above her father’s grocery. Other memories joined them as she saw the cross that hung above the single, narrow bed, of a shore far down South this time. </p><p>The memories grew with the dusk, becoming clearer as the light faded into the sea and she found herself immobilized, staring off into the past. Patrick wrapped his arms around her from behind, startling her in his attempt to provide comfort. </p><p>He rested his cheek against her head. “How do you feel about all of this?”</p><p>“I’m not quite sure,” she answered honestly. “I feel much more than I thought I would, but I can’t quite sort it all out.”</p><p>She stroked his arm, and leaned back into him, wanting to forget this complicated contemplation for a while and focus on simpler, more pleasurable elements of their current situation. </p><p>“Are you sure?” His voice was low, the smile she could feel as he kissed her neck conveying his feelings on the matter.  </p><p>Shelagh turned and pulled him to her, wanting only the fierce joy they could create together.</p><p>Patrick matched her energy, eagerly allowing her to propel him back onto the bed, running his hands up her smooth thighs as she ground against him. A shiver ran through her at the idea of what she was about to do within the walls of a church. She would never have done this in any of the religious buildings she had lived in as Sister Bernadette, or as Shelagh Mannion. But she had never been here before. This was not sacrilegious, but it was close enough to be thrilling. Close enough to indulge in the present without profaning the past. </p><p>Patrick unbuttoned her flannel nightgown with practiced ease, leaving it on to shield her from the damp chill of the old building, but opening it enough the he could freely worship her body. She held him to her, murmuring encouragements and endearments as she drew him into her. She focussed her mind on every tingling nerve that illuminated her body, every sharp breath and guttural moan that told her her husband was doing the same. </p><p>Here in this austere building, she revelled in the feel of Patrick’s lean muscles straining against hers, the bliss of being so fully aware of her body that there was no space in her consciousness for anything else, save his body. His intentions matched hers, joining her in dancing to the edge of the precipice and stepping back until the wave came to sweep them out to sea. </p><p>They curled into each other, sharing their warmth and comfort. They hadn’t been able to do this last time they were away, it had been too hot. Now they drifted to sleep, lazily, reverently stroking their hands along the familiar contours of their lover’s body, their self-generated heat lulling them into the inviting darkness.</p>
  </div></div>
</body>
</html>